Asthma
by Love Like Homicide
Summary: Mike has an asthma attack and Michael helps him out. Mike/Michael. Kind of pre-slash-y. Kind of an asthma PSA.


**Letter 'A' for an ABCs of Goth series I'm working on for AO3. I do not condone any of the dumb shit that goes on in this story (read: do not swear at teachers or smoke with asthma). **

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Like his friends, Michael didn't see the point in going to class. He knew the things he wanted to know and the rest was just trivial filler to keep him there until three, just so after thirteen years he could get a piece of paper that confirms he's of at least average intelligence. But, like most fourteen-year-olds, he lived with his parents, and they had expectations - not high ones, but high enough to be a burden. The worst of which was that he must pass every subject in school.

'Dumb bitch,' he muttered when his history teacher, a stout woman with curly brown hair and jeans pulled up to her rib cage, told another student to put their hand down. He hadn't even bothered to learn her name, she was just another conformist bitch, but she grated on him more than others. Not only did she teach straight from the textbook, but she blatantly ignored any and all questions posed by her students. He didn't know why she was even there. He didn't know why he was there. He could learn just as much reading his textbook in the parking lot with Pete, Henrietta, and a cigarette, but he knew this bitch was vindictive enough to call his mother over one missed class.

In his peripheral, he saw another hand go up. It was the same person she scolded a few minutes ago. 'Mike, that's enough. All the answers are in the chapter.'

'Please, miss,' a girl started, but the teacher shook her head. Mike put his hand down.

Curious and bored as hell, Michael peered around to see what had the so-called vampires all worked up. For reasons he didn't care to analyse, his stomach lurched when he spotted Mike, one hand to his throat and the other on his stomach, breathing heavily. He didn't look right. Even under his white make-up, Michael could tell he was losing colour, his normally ivory skin dulling to grey. The girl beside him moved her hand up and down in front of her, guiding his breathing.

Michael tapped his cane on the desk of the boy beside him. 'What?' the chubby, freckled kid asked. His eyebrows were furrowed in annoyance, but Michael was used to it. It was the same reaction he always got, which was good, because it meant the kid wasn't conceded enough to think they were friends.

'Ask Count Fagula over there if he's alright.'

'Why do you care?' The kid crossed his arms.

Michael scoffed. 'I don't, but I also don't want to listen to any of his dumb arse followers crying if he drops dead.'

The kid rolled his eyes but still did as asked and leaned across the empty desk between him and the vampire girl. A few seconds later he sat back and no longer looked annoyed, but down-right pissed.

'She says he's having an asthma attack but the teacher won't let them leave. She won't even listen!'

Michael wasn't surprised, the bitch wouldn't care if a student showed up on fire. He was even less surprised to see Mike's breathing getting quicker and more shallow, yet he was still being a good little honour student and staying quiet. Well, Michael didn't have to stay quiet. He was joking about Mike dying, but now it was starting to look like that may actually happen.

Michael put his hand up and the teacher glanced at him, then back down at her computer, ignoring him. 'Hey, bitch!'

A few students gasped and the boy beside him snickered. 'Michael-' the teacher started in a firm, practiced tone, but he cut her off.

'Yeah, whatever. One of your students is, like, dying over there,' he waved his hand towards the other side of the classroom. 'So maybe you should get off your fat arse and do something about it.'

The teacher glanced towards Mike for a second, seeming to process the situation, before rounding back on Michael, her cheeks an ugly, blotchy red. 'How dare you speak to me that way! Didn't your parents teach you respect? I don't care about the circumstances, you should never use such disgusting language towards a teacher-'

She continued her rant, but Michael had heard all he needed. She didn't care about the circumstances. He glanced back across the room and Mike had his eyes closed, his complexion absolutely sickly. In a mix of indignation and pity, he shoved his textbook into his satchel and stood up.

'And where are you going?' The bitch asked, but he ignored her and headed towards Mike.

The vamp-kid looked up at him wearily, the bags under his eyes almost black, and didn't resist when Michael hauled him out of his seat and dragged him, stumbling, out of the classroom.

In the hallway Michael stopped and allowed Mike to slump against him and catch as much breath as he could. At this proximity he could hear the tight, rattled wheezing, and feel the boy trembling. 'Should I call an ambulance?'

Mike nodded, seemingly unable to speak.

Michael made the call, then put an arm around his waist and helped him out onto the front steps of the school. Once they were both seated, the goth opened his satchel and rummaged around in it, looking for something he hadn't needed in months.

'Here,' he said as he held out his ventolin. Mike stared at him with wide eyes, then accepted it.

He took out the cartridge, checked the date, then took four weak puffs. 'You too?' he muttered.

Michael rolled his eyes. 'No shit. It's like the most common disease in the country.'

Mike smiled weakly. 'Thanks.'

'Don't. I may hate you and your faggy, conformist friends, but I wouldn't let you die because of that whore.'

Mike started to laugh, but it quickly dissolved into an aggressive coughing fit. Michael rubbed his back until the spasms stopped. 'Thanks. Really.'

'Why don't you have your own inhaler, anyway? Aren't you wannabes supposed to be worried about your health?'

Mike nodded. 'I gave mine to Mr Makey, so I wouldn't lose it.'

'Well, that was stupid.' Michael sighed and grabbed one of the stray cigarettes he found at the bottom of his bag, but before he could find his lighter Mike snatched it away and threw it onto the footpath. 'The fuck?!'

Mike gawked at him. 'You can't smoke with asthma! You can't smoke around _me_ with _my_ asthma!' Mike yelled, then put his hand to his throat and took a few deep breaths, still far from recovered.

'Shut up arsehole, it helps.'

'No, it doesn't,' Mike said. Michael pulled a fresh cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, making a point of blowing the smoke in the other boy's face. He coughed and pulled his shirt over his nose. 'What is wrong with you?!'

'I told you, it helps.'

'You're a piece of work.'

He laughed and took another drag.

Mike slowly lowered his shirt and giggled. 'Let me try?'

Michael raised an eyebrow. 'What?'

Mike held out his hand. 'You said it helps and I trust you, per se. So let me try.'

'Are you going to throw it on the road?'

'No.'

Michael hesitated for a moment, then handed him the cigarette. 'Okay.'

Mike stared at it, bringing it towards his face and examining the filter. Finally, he put it to his lips and inhaled. Michael had expected him to choke, or cough, or vomit like he had the first time, but he was fine. Mike held the smoke in his lungs for a moment less than Michael normally would, but much longer than most beginners, then exhaled. 'That...' he took a couple of deep, clear breaths, 'actually worked.'

Michael smiled and took the cigarette back. As he took another breath himself, the filter was still hot and damp from Mike's mouth and that didn't go unnoticed. Their eyes met, something like acceptance exchanged between them, and they shared a smile.

The ambulance arrived and the moment was broken. As Mike was loaded into the ambulance, one of the paramedic giving the smoking Goth a filthy look, Michael decided that the entire situation had been far too dramatic.


End file.
